


if we starve, at least we'll starve together

by Saraste



Series: Femslash February 2017 [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Failure to cook, Femslash, Femslash February 2017, Fluff, post WWI Britain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9639692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraste/pseuds/Saraste
Summary: Neither Sansa or Margaery, both daughters of peers, can barely cook, as it was not a skill that was deemed necessary for them to learn. Yet neither would change their living arrangements for the world. If they'll starve for lack of proper sustenance, at least they'll get to do it together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for prompt 9:cooking from [this prompt list on tumblr](http://lingeringmirth.tumblr.com/post/156668017677/femslash-february-prompts).
> 
> Setting is post WWI, both of their families are impoverished and/or dead. Inspired a bit by Downton Abbey (kinda). If DA had lesbian daughters.

 

Sansa knows how to cook. Somewhat. Her upbringing certainly had not included her having any need to acquire such a practical skill, as they had had plenty of servants. But fortunes can dwindle, the world can change and even her, the eldest Stark daughter, had needed to learn. 

 

Yet it isn’t easy. And Margaery is not helpful, seeing as she cannot quite cook herself, her history being similar to Sansa’s. 

 

‘Is it supposed to look like that?’ Margaery asks, hovering behind Sansa’s back, startling her. 

 

‘I couldn’t say,’ Sansa replies, looking down into her pot, at the darkened mess hardening at the bottom. It has been mostly trial and error, heavy emphasis on error, for her, learning how to cook. Her efforts are usually enough to fill a belly if not more. Yet she feels the pang of squandering ingredients when her efforts are ruined, like now. To think she once did not think of such mundane things as money. Well, those who have money rarely do not think overmuch about spending it, do they, it is only when one has little to no money do finances become an issue. But right now Sansa is tired and irate and so she snaps where she wouldn’t if she were not. ‘It is not like you know how to cook, either!’

 

Margaery withdraws, hands which had been reaching to touch wrapping around Margaery’s own body as a barrier against Sansa’s ire. ‘What would you have me say? Things are the way they are. There is  _ no _ going back to how they were. You know that. Sansa.’

 

Sansa sighs, closing her eyes.

 

She remembers the way things were, glittering dresses and balls, carefree days where she did not need to worry if the food would run out because the money did, when her biggest worry had been what dress to pick for the next big event, where her life’s mission had been to find an eligible suitor, get proposed to and married, become a mother and live a carefree life. Until the War. Until Margaery.

 

It had not been Margaery alone derailing Sansa’s future, but many things. And here they are now, making do as best as they can, living together in a small cottage on the Cornwall coast, known in the neighbourhood as two good friends living together. They keep two beds for appearances sake but only one of the beds is slept in, even if it gets awful cramped. Margaery is the future Sansa would never had dared dream of, had not realized even that she could have to dream about. Loving Margaery is the most precious thing in Sansa’s life and what’s left of her family is happy that she seems to not need a dowry, as she is already past the common age to marry, even if she doesn’t feel that old yet. Margaery has no family left. They both have small incomes which keep them afloat and Margaery writes a little, Sansa tells her she’ll be a proper novelist one day, Margaery always gives her her prettiest smile when she says it, her fingers smudged with ink, hair up in a bun with a pencil stuck through. They love their life together in their little cottage and neither of them would have it any other way, yet they both often yearn for a cook. 

 

‘I know and I’m not mad,’ Sansa says, turning from the wrecked dinner and folding herself into Margaery’s waiting arms.

 

Margaery presses a kiss to the crown of her head. Sansa holds her close. ‘You always get stroppy when you’re hungry.’

 

Sansa huffs. ‘I know.’

 

‘Why didn’t you make soup? Soup is easy. And cheap.’

 

‘We have been eating soup for a month.’

 

‘I have never complained.’

 

‘I want to give you better.’

 

‘I have you. I don’t care what we eat.’

 

They kiss and the world seems a little less daunting. Everything will be alright as long as they have each other. And if they starve, at least it’ll be together.

  
  



End file.
